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About Me

Welcome!
To me, there is nothing more precious than our family.
We are all connected in some way, like the branches of a tree. This site explores those branches, sharing family stories and information - both known and yet to be discovered - so we can meet the people behind the names and gain insights into our own lives. If you have questions or wish to share your own memories or photo about a family on this site, please leave a comment, or contact me.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Faith, family, and charity were the recurring themes of Patricia Tully's life.

Born the youngest of eight children to Daniel Francis Fay and Sarah Ellen "Ella" Riney on July 12, 1927, in Stuart, Iowa, Mom - or "Pat," as she was called by those who knew her - was a sweet little girl who adored her brothers and sisters and was loved in return for her cheery and fun-loving ways.

When she was two years old, Pat followed her older brother, Francis "Frannie," into the fields to play. As Frannie tried to show her how to use a slingshot, he accidentally hit a beehive. With hundreds of angry bees swarming around them, the two panicked children fled. But Frannie, about 9 at that time, easily outran his baby sister, and little Pat arrived at the house with a multitude of bee stings. Her father, Daniel, picked her up and silently cradled the helpless toddler her in his arms. Years later, she remembered feeling safe and protected as he rocked her tiny, pain-wracked body throughout that long night. It would be her only memory of her father.

Daniel Francis Fay

Daniel Fay died a year later, in 1927, leaving Ella, a seamstress, to raise her eight children on her own during the Great Depression. Ella's strength, love, and spirituality made her a role model and hero to Pat, who remembered her passionately throughout her own life.

Ella faced her challenges bravely and not without a sense of humor. About a year or so after their father's death, she came home one sunny afternoon to find her four youngest children carefully carrying the household furniture outside. When she asked them why, little Pat piped up, "Because Frannie says we need a bigger house, Mother, so we're gonna set fire to this one!" The others nodded excitedly in unison.

Scooping up her youngest child, Ella matter-of-factly informed the other children that the family would not be moving, instructed them to return the furniture to the house, and calmly went inside.

Ella and Pat were extremely close. Pat would climb into bed with her mother every night, where the two would snuggle together, Ella calling Pat her "little stove" because she kept her mother warm. In the morning, she would awaken her daughter by gently stroking her forehead. These moments of tenderness would carry Mom through her life and help her to become both loving toward and beloved by all whose lives she touched.

Pat was 12 years old when Ella was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Ambrose had died five years earlier of tuberculosis, and Joe and Frannie, now adults, had left home. The only treatment center being in Chicago, Ella moved her five daughters, Katherine "Kay," Dorothy "Dot," Monica "Mickey," Adele "Del," and Pat to a small apartment on Chicago's South Side. Del and Pat entered St. Thomas Aquinas High School (coincidentally, my own mother, Joan Schiavon, would attend the same school a couple of years later).

When it became clear that the treatments were not working, Ella decided to return to Stuart to die. With little to her name, she made a special trip to a photography studio to have a portrait made of herself so she would have something to leave her children. Knowing she had little time left, she baked Pat a beautiful chocolate cake for her 13th birthday in mid-May of 1938, though Pat's actual birthday would not be until that July. On May 22, barely a couple of weeks later, Ella Riney Fay died, surrounded by her children.

Sarah Ellen Riney

The only things Pat had of her mother's were her parents' wedding picture and her mother's portrait. She treasured the pictures all her life and hung them near her bed, so that they were the first things she saw when she awoke in the morning.

After her mother's death, Pat and her sister Mickey moved to California, living together in Oakland for about a year until Mickey joined the WACS during World War II. Mom was on her own from that time on. Adversity had made her resilient, outgoing, and adventurous, and she and a group of her girlfriends moved to Honolulu, Hawaii for a couple of years before returning to California, this time to Santa Monica, where held a number of jobs and even learned to fly a two-seater prop airplane. She used to say that God was always watching over her because she was never without work.

A lovely young woman with an easy laugh and a love of life, Pat met Welner "Bing" Tully, a young World War II Army veteran, when she moved into an apartment in the same building in which he lived. They found a strong and common bond in that they had both lost their parents at an early age and had been on their own for a long time. They were married in Las Vegas, Nevada, on March 1, 1958, moving to a small cottage in Topanga Canyon. As time went on, they would live in London, England, Santa Monica, Santa Maria, and San Jose, California, eventually celebrating 39 years of wedded life.

Pat and Bing forged their marriage based on mutual support and devotion and gave their children, Charles and Kathleen, a life filled with love and laughter and encouragement.

The consummate mother, Pat took great pride in her children and used to say they had never given her a moment's trouble. She never raised a hand to them but reared them instead with firmness, wisdom, and respect. Among her most prized possessions were their school pictures, a pencil holder that Charles had made her as a little boy, and a short story Kathleen had written in grade school. Once, when Charles was about 10 years old, he put a rubber rat on her Mixmaster electric mixer, probably thinking he would scare the daylights out of her. She thought it was so funny that she glued it right onto the base of the machine, where it remains to this day. She took great delight in baking birthday cakes for her family. No one could bake a German chocolate cake like Mom could. Your birthday was not complete without one of her famous cakes.

When Charles and Kathy were grown, Pat took on do-it-yourself home improvement projects. No sooner than Bing was in a limo on his way to the airport for a business trip, Pat would pull out her tools and begin painting, wallpapering, or sanding floors. Bing used to joke that when he returned home, he sometimes wondered if he had walked into the right house.

Although a sentimental person, she loved a good laugh and preferred an outrageously funny greeting card to a serious one. She entered easily into conversation with friends or strangers alike. She explored both sides of a problem and refused to judge anyone - "you never know what another person is going through," she used to say. She was a good listener, compassionate, and empathetic. She was always ready to put her own thoughts aside to be present for anyone who needed her ear.

Pat was proud of her Irish heritage and kept a number of books on Irish history and culture by her chair in the living room. A favorite song of hers was "When Irish Eyes are Smiling," and she loved to sing it to her grandchildren as she cuddled them in her rocking chair. The thought of her grandchildren's names being very Irish delighted her, and she claimed that each of them had "the map of Ireland" on their faces and in their eyes.

Material things meant nothing to her. Her riches were her memories of her mother and of Charles and Kathy when they were little, and her almost daily visits by her grandchildren. She was proud of the closeness she and her sisters shared, though they lived thousands of miles apart. She loved visiting them and reminiscing about the old days when they were all together, of how their mother had loved them all so much and of all the hardships they had overcome together after her death.

Her family having been poor, she wanted to help others in any way she could, and she knitted scarves, mittens, and between 90 - 100 caps a year for the clients of Martha's Kitchen, a soup kitchen for the poor in San Jose. On cold winter nights, Brother Joseph Nuuanu, the director of the kitchen, and his staff would distribute the caps to their clients after meals, so that they "would leave the hall feeling full and warm." He believed that, "thoughout the years, anyone who wore one of Pat's caps was wearing her prayer; and everyone who wore those caps reflected a prayer (for her)."

She was never a "mother-in-law" in my eyes. She and my mother had been close, and when my mother was dying of cancer ten years ago, she asked Pat to be my mother in her absence. Pat was indeed my "mom." Saturday evenings, long after everyone had left the dinner table, we bared our souls to each other and talked for hours, about the Church, family, childrearing, and moral values. If there was one subject we disagreed on, it had to be our after-dinner drink of choice: she loved her coffee, while I preferred tea. "How on earth can you drink that stuff?" she would tease me.

In her later years, Mom lived for her grandchildren, Michael, Kevin, and Erin. She and Dad babysat them every chance they got, and she delighted in their growth and accomplishments. She was ever the doting grandma. She cried when each of them started preschool and beamed when they brought her nosegays of flowers from the garden. Her "babies" could do no wrong in her eyes. To her, they were perfect in every way.

Mom owed her deep love for the Church to her own mother, a devout Catholic who brought her to daily Mass and passed on to her daughter her devotions to the Sacred Heart and the Virgin Mary.

Erin, Michael, and Kevin

A long-time parishioner of Queen of Apostles Church in San Jose, Pat helped out in the office, edited the parish newsletter, The Queen's Herald, served on the parish council, and participated in the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults (RCIA), a program for new and not-so-new Catholics who wanted to better understand the Church. She had many friends at the church: lay, clergy, and religious, and she spoke of them often.

Until her health worsened during the last eight to ten months of her life, she had never missed a Sunday Mass. The one exception she made, possibly her last Mass, was the celebration of Michael's First Communion on April 20, 1996. It was a highlight of her life to witness her eldest grandson receive the Body of Christ.

Although she had survived a surgery to repair six blockages in her arteries, the strain on her body began to take its toll, and the flow of oxygen to her brain diminished during the last year of her life. Her memory began to fade, but the things that mattered most to her all her life were the things she remembered up to the end. Her God, her precious mother, her family - these things never left her mind or her heart.

One sunny August day in 1996, she confided that she had forgotten how to knit. She was frustrated that she could no longer knit the caps she so loved to bring to Brother Joseph, but even this she tried to accept gracefullyand quietly.

She seemed to know that she would be leaving us soon, and she talked longingly and frequently of her mother. Her voice would trail off as she recalled stories about her mother, and sometimes she seemed to be in another world. She began to give little things to Erin, as if she no longer had any need for them. She talked of Charles and Kathy, of what good children they had been and how proud they had made her.

The evening of the day Mom died, we drove over to the house to be with Dad and Kathy. The children, at the time ranging in age from 8 to 4, understood that Grandma had died that morning, and they became excited as we entered the house. "Look!" they cried as they noticed some of her belongings. "Grandma left these behind!" I guess they thought that when you die, you take your things with you.

She left us behind, too, but thankfully, she left us with a lifetime full of memories - memories of a sister, a friend, a wife, a mother, and a grandmother whose life gently, lovingly, and gracefully touched all those who knew and loved her.

Did you know any of the people mentioned in this story, or are you a member of the Fay, Riney, or Tully families? If so, share your memories and comments below.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

One of the great things about writing a personal blog, even one such as this, is that you get to write about whatever and whomever you want. One the of the hardest things about it, though, is that sometimes the things or people you want to write about are so close to you that it's difficult to do. I don't know exactly why. Maybe it's because you're exposing a piece of your heart to the world. Is that such a bad thing? I seem to wrestle with this a lot. In the end, I think it is only right to share that which is special to us with others, so that they, too, may be enriched in some way. And so it is with my husband's late parents, "Bing" and Pat Tully, both of whom were like a second set of parents to me.

How Dad Impacted the World

The following is taken from a remembrance I gave about Dad just after his death at age 85:

As we gather here today to remember Bing, I find myself also remembering his wife Pat, who died during a very stormy January ten years ago. Back then it seemed that the whole earth was missing her. Even the clouds were shedding tears.

But today, here we are, celebrating Bing and his birth unto new life, and it has been a sun-filled day and a bright, sun-filled week. And somehow that, too, seems right, doesn't it?

Welner Clayton "Bing" Tully - I have to call him Dad from here on out, because he really was like a second father to me - well, he was like the sun: shining brightly, filling our lives with his sunny smile and warm sense of humor.

He loved this time of year and never failed to entertain us with one of his silly rhymes, remembered just for the occasion:

Spring is sprung

The grass is riz,

I wonder where

The flowers is?

He certainly would have loved all these flowers here today. But even more, he would have loved to see all of you. We'd like to think that he does see you - from Heaven, where he is finally reunited with Pat, his parents, his sister Vivian, and the rest of his family. They must be very happy.

So why are we sad? We miss him, his smile, his twinkling blue eyes, his gentle ways, his corny jokes. This simple man, humble to the end, who managed a faint smile and thanked his nurses for their help, just minutes before he took his last breath. We couldn't get enough of him, and here we sit, wishing we had more time with him.

If he were here, he'd probably have this to say: Things could be worse.

I'm sure many of you have heard him say this throughout his life. No matter how bad the situation, he always found a way to look at the bright side of life. And whenever he said this - things could be worse - people just felt better. Yes, they'd agree, it could be worse, so maybe things weren't so bad, after all. Hearing those words seemed to give people the strength and encouragement they needed to get through whatever challenges life had given them.

Dad's life was not without its own challenges. He and his older sister, Vivian, went to live with their father's sister Amelia (nee Tully) Bining when their parents became ill and unable to care for them. It was the beginning of the Great Depression, and Amelia, who lived in a poor area of East Los Angeles, had children of her own and must have wondered how she would make ends meet with two new mouths to feed. But..."things could be worse."

Amelia couldn't say no to her family, and she raised Dad and Vivian as her own. She had little money but lots of live. Dad grew very close to her. He worked alongside her in her little grocery store, learning enough Spanish to help the customers, and he took on odd jobs to help the household. As soon as he was old enough, he moved out on his own so he would not be a burden on his aunt. He eventually the Army and was sent to India and Burma as a radio operator.

After the war, Dad returned to California and put down roots in Santa Monica, going to night school and earning a Bachelor's degree in engineering. He dated his fair share of ladies but was smitten in particular by Patricia Fay, a dark-haired, independent and fun-loving young woman who lived in the apartment below his. Pat's confidence belied her own struggles, having been orphaned just after her 15th birthday. I think they must have been good for one another and maybe together resolved not to let these tragedies get the worst of them but rather make the world a better place in spite of them.

Dad had a child-like sense of wonder, which endeared him to any kid who knew him. When Charles and Kathy were little, he was always helping them build things, or steady them on their bikes, or take them off to play tennis and grab a milkshake on the way home. All the kids in the neighborhood knew that Bing was fun on two feet, and many of them would knock on the door to ask if he could come out to play. He lay out on the grass with them, telling stories about the clouds, hung tire swings from trees, and built clubhouses out of boxes.

When our own kids were babies, he'd bundle them up in his navy blue terrycloth robe and quietly rock them to sleep. He and Michael used to take trips to Home Depot to buy supplies for projects, read astronomy books together, or camp out in the back yard.

Our own kids could not get enough of Grandpa. We recently learned that sometimes they would fake being sick from school, just so they could spend the day at his house. When a TV show called Pokemon was all the rage, Dad bought a Pokemon poster with pictures of the 100 or so characters on it. He framed it and hung it in his living room, and he memorized all the character names so he'd know who the kids were talking about.

There's this little yellow Pokemon character, kind of a fur ball and cuddly, with with big eyes, called Pikachu. Kevin loved Pikachu. So one day, Dad found a paper cup at a garage sale, with a Pikachu on it. Every time we'd go to visit Dad, he'd get that cup out, fill it with something or other and give it to Kevin. Then he'd carefully rinse and dry the cup so Kevin could use it again next time. This went on for about a year, until the cup finally fell apart. I think Dad was more upset about it than Kevin.
The kids loved rummaging through the house, because Dad always had some kind of treasure there. Once, when Kevin was about 5 or 6, he found a book of matches and brought them out to Dad's back yard to ask if he could light them. Dad said, yeah, fine, just do it in the dry grass so you won't catch the good grass on fire.

Once, when I was at work and Dad was taking care of Erin, he fell asleep in his chair on the porch. Erin was just learning to tie her shoes, and she got this bright idea to tie the laces on Dad's boots together. So she tied the laces over and over in tiny knots. Then she ran into the house to hide. Her giggling woke Dad up, and he called her to help him, but she thought she was in trouble, so she locked the front door and sat on the couch to watch cartoons. Dad worked his way over to the window. He started knocking and startled her so much that she fell off the couch. Neither of them could untie all the knots, so she had to get a pair of scissors and they cut the shoelaces to get the boots off of Dad's feet. He wore Velcro after that experience.

Dad wasn't beyond his own sense of mischief. Over the last year and a half, while he lived with us, he and Sugar, our Golden Retriever, became constant companions. Dad loved to feed Sugar, especially when he had no appetite but didn't want anyone to know. In the morning he'd always have two slices of raisin toast, but on the days he couldn't eat he'd wait until my back was turned and slip the toast to Sugar, who was only too happy to help. Once in a while I would catch them in the act, and Dad would give me that sheepish grin of his as if to say, "gotcha!"

Perhaps due to his Depression experience, Dad was a thrifty man, saving odds and ends for a rainy day or a chance to help someone else. I think I could safely say that they helped most of the people who knew him in one way or another. He never talked about it much, unless he wanted you to know where he'd been so no one would worry. But the little things he did meant a lot, and it gave him great joy to know he'd erased someone else' burden a bit.

He once pulled over the side of the freeway near Santa Maria to help a stranded traveler. He drove the man to a restaurant, bought him lunch, and got him a motel room, then went back and worked on the man's car so he could be back on his way the next morning. He did things like this various times, and when we'd find out, we'd worry that someone might take advantage of him, but they never did. It was as if he had an angel on his shoulder.

Another time, when he was living in his little house in the Rose Garden neighborhood, Dad saw a homeless man pushing a grocery cart down the street. He went out and gave the man some fruit, then invited the man to come back to the house once a week, so Dad could give him soda cans and bottles to recycle.

He retired early from his job so he could care for Mom when her health declined. It was a busy retirement, even after Mom died. Dad was never idle. With his engineer's mind, he loved mechanical challenges and was always fixing cars or appliances for us or others. "Why call someone else when I can fix it better and for less?" he'd chide you gently. He got a kick out of mowing neighbors' lawns and sweeping their gutters, or giving friends a ride to the grocery store.

His neighbors knew they always could count on him for a hand with anything. He never could say no to anyone and made time for all. To him, what is important in life is not how much you have but in how much you give to others. "My pleasure is double when they come to me in trouble," he loved to say.

In the last year and a half, Dad's health began to decline. His latest heart attack and kidney disease began taking their toll on his once strong body. He had difficulty caring for himself and began to lose his short term memory. He got in his car one chilly afternoon in February and disappeared for several hours.

Chuck combed the Rose Garden and beyond, hoping to find his Dd in one of his favorite haunts, but no luck. We got a call at about 6 o'clock that evening from a worker at the Taco Bell in Mountain View. Seems that after becoming lost on the freeway, Dad had pulled off the road and was in a daze. The Good Samaritan, who was on his lunch break, recognized something was wrong, took Dad to his house and fed him, then brought him back to work with him at Taco Bell while he tried to find Dad's family.

Days later, we learned that Dad has driven all the way to the St. Regis Hotel in San Francisco, where the parking lot attendant helped him into the lobby for a cup of hot coffee while he checked the tires and fluids and sent him back on his way again. A fitting assist for a man who'd done much the same for another stranger many years ago.

Dad came to live with us after that. Though he came back from his many health setbacks like a cat with nine lives, he never really recovered fully and preferred lying on the couch, reading poetry, watching Judge Judy on TV, and discussing the day's events. No longer could he do many of his favorite things, yet he never complained.

He was always grateful for the slightest thing and took pleasure in listening to his grandchildren tell him about their day. On good days, he'd quote Shakespeare or Kipling, who he loved. Once he read me a new poem, in his then-halting voice. It went like this:

True worth is in doing, not seeming -

In doing, each day that goes by,

Some little good - not in dreaming

Of great things to do by and by.

For whatever men say in their blindness,

And spite of the fancies of youth,

There's nothing so kingly as kindness,

And nothing so royal as truth.

The air for the wing of the sparrow,

The bush for the robin and wren,

But always the path that is narrow

And straight, for the children of men.

We cannot make bargains for blisses,

Nor catch them like fishes in nets;

And sometimes the thing our life misses

Helps more than the thing which it gets.

For good lieth not in pursuing,

Nor gaining of great nor of small,

But just in the doing, and doing

As we would be done by, is all.

- Nobility, by Alice Cary

When he finished reading, he studied the poet's name closely, as if trying to memorize it. "Hmm...Alice Cary," he said slowly. "Well she must have been a pretty nice gal."

On really good days, Dad would mosey over to the window and marvel at the flowers. He loved the purple hibiscus and lavender roses out front, and he'd remind us that purple was his favorite color, though he'd add that he looked best in blue. He missed his friends but relished getting cards and calls from them and would read the cards over and over again.

In recent months, as his gaze became more distant, I used to ask him what he was thinking about. He'd smile slyly and reply with a wink, "I'm thinking about my wicked past."

When he went to the hospital three weeks ago, he was exhausted and weak. It was hard to be cheerful, but he mustered a smile for us and the hospital staff, never one to give a hard time. After all, he managed to whisper, things could be worse.

I think that what brought him the most comfort in his final days was seeing Charles and Kathy and Michael and Kevin and Erin. His eyes lit up when they entered the room. It was clear just how proud he was of all of them. They and Mom (Pat) were the core of his life.

I have no doubt but that Dad's memory will live on in our own lives. He would have liked most of this - knowing that we are remembering him here today. The one thing he might have scoffed at is the idea that we chose the poem we just read to remember him. The title is "Nobility." Dad never would have thought of himself as "noble" but rather as someone just trying to live his life the only way he knew how. Still, I think it's a fitting title for a poem about someone who put others first. Sorry about that, Dad, but remember..."things could be worse."

Now I think I know "where the flowers is." He was our sunshine, and we were his flowers.

Thanks, Dad. We love you.

- Linda

Did you know any of the people mentioned in this story, or are you a member of the Hoppin, Tully, Fay, Moreno, or Binning families? If so, share your own memories and comments below.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

On a cold wintry morning on the eve of the Civil War some 150 years ago, a dashing red-headed French baker and a wide-eyed, dark-haired Irish seamstress pledged their undying devotion in a loving embrace before God as they were joined in marriage in a small Catholic church in Shreveport, Louisiana. The bond they shared made them feel strong and invincible, the same way it had made their parents and grandparents feel.

The world lay before Francois and Catherine Perrotin, and they knew could do anything together. They dreamed of the places they would go and the children they would have, and they resolved that this wonderful love they had for each other would flourish and keep their family strong and close and great.

Little did they know that over a century later, a handful of their sixth and seventh generation descendants would also embrace in the atrium of a California hotel, brought together by the same bond that had united Francois and Catherine and reuniting a family whose branches, separated by an ocean and scattered throughout three continents, had lost contact for over a century.

Our reunion with Don and Jennie Murray of Gloucestershire, England, was definitely a dream come true and just as magical as we had hoped. My father, Gilbert Huesca, my husband, Charles, two of our children, Michael and Erin (Our son Kevin had to work that day) and I met the Murrays at the Burlingame Embassy Suites for brunch on Sunday, February 26, 2007. A very kind reporter for the San Jose Mercury News, Scott Herhold, joined us to cover the historic occasion.

Unlike some first meetings in which you look at each other awkwardly and try to think of something intelligent to say, we never stopped talking from the moment we met. How else could it be? With so many family stories to share and mysteries to explore, we plunged into a conversation that lasted until well past nine o'clock that evening.

We spent the rest of the week visiting local Bay Area landmarks, such as Mission Santa Clara, Big Basin State Park, Monterey, and Carmel. We also spent a fair bit of time at our home, studying family pictures, marveling at common characteristics, and figuring out who went where on our ever-growing family tree. And of course, we took a fair amount of pictures of our own.

By the time the Murrays returned home to England, it was hard to say goodbye. We felt we had always known each other, and maybe in a strange way, we had. It was as if Francois and Catherine, the links that had brought us together in the first place, had planned the whole thing.

Meeting Don and Jennie was just the beginning. We have stayed in close touch, sharing yesterday’s stories as we encounter them anew and laughing over today’s stories of our respective present-day families. Since our first contact, I have “met” seven other members of their extended family, living in Spain, Mexico, the U.S. and Canada.

The e-mails and phone calls keep coming and along with them come old family pictures, letters and always, more stories. I am continually amazed by the pride in and passion for this heritage of ours – a common thread, it seems, perhaps sewn into the fabric of our family by seamstress Catherine O’Grady Perrotin.

I had hoped to write about this sooner, but I must make a confession here. The Murrays’ visit struck such a personal chord with me, that it has been almost too personal to write about. These long-lost cousins, this newly-found family, have moved my heart so deeply with their love for and devotion to one another and their desire to keep our history alive for those to come.

And yet it is important to record this event, because it is all about a very special celebration. Not just my own, or my father's, or my children's, or Don and Jennie's, but a celebration of our wider family - those who could not be there to join us but who share in this blessed family heritage.

It is about the reunion of a family whose branches each thought the others had perished tragically, only to discover them years later, alive and flourishing. It is about individuals who taught each other about their ancestors and in turn learned something valuable about themselves. It is about an appreciation of grandparents and great-grandparents and collateral relatives we never knew but whose quiet influence still reverberates in our own lives. It is about a celebration of the family.

To celebrate the family is to know that we are not alone. Whether near or far, whether we know it or not, another person shares a common facial expression, walks the same way, cries for the same reasons, drives a similar car, maybe even likes the same movies or gives their children the same names.

To celebrate the family is to understand who we are and how we got to be that way. It is true that each of us is unique, but we are who we are in great part thanks to – or in some cases, in spite of - someone else who was there first. Someone blazed a trail for us, consciously or not and whether we chose to follow it or not. Though they lived in a different time and place than we do today, their experiences and challenges may have been similar.

The experiences that touched our ancestor’s lives, from major events such as migrations, wars, and disasters to everyday occurrences such as courtships, Sunday dinners, misunderstandings, and vacations, to personal characteristics such as a particular skill or choice of a common trade or religious convictions, form us in mind and heart.

To celebrate the family is to honor those who have gone before us. We discover and learn from their struggles and triumphs, share their joys and cry over their sorrows. We rejoice in the present, daring to live with purpose and faith and passion, giving unabashedly of ourselves to our loved ones near and far. We look ahead to the future, keeping alive the traditions, stories and values that define us, in the hope that they will enrich the lives of those who are yet to come.

In doing all these things, we reinforce the foundation that was laid so long ago and pay tribute to a family that has taken risks, supported each other through good times and bad, and thrived through the generations.

Thank you, Francois and Catherine, for your legacy of love. It has endured and grown beyond your wildest dreams, and it is what binds us together and keeps us strong and close and great. And that is cause for celebration.

Are you a member of the Perrotin, O'Grady, Bennett, or Huesca families? If so, I'd love to hear from you.